Now we found out, some time ago that if you take a whole group of really
superbad dudes, and hang em in together they’ll make some music whether or not
somebody else thought it was hip or not.
You know, they be OK.
You dig?
Somebody’s got to start it.
Verse One: O.C.
It’s like me against anyone
First full verse is spontaneous, combustion thrusts me
No rapper can dust me
Bounced upon the scene with a theme, Word...Life
I cut fantasy out cause I differ from a dream
Wisdom lies deep in my molecules, you assumed
I fell victim to, hip-hop blues
You way off I stay on tour often rockin spots
on the California coast, range you know back to Boston
Enforcin my theory, leavin rappers teary-eyed
Fly most who came and thought they had stride
You accustomed to cussin and bluffin fussin for nothin
Half of y’all crumbs are just soft like muffins
I bake, masterpieces, sharper thesis
Y’all candy coated motherfuckers stink like feces
Needless to say, are these running shoes yours?
You retreated when I gave out head for wars
My microphone set is immensely brick wall
Solid in and out you slept so now snore
Who got my back, you ask Lord and BlastMaster
Unorthodox, combinations from the masters
Mics I menace, when it’s finished
You get an understanding of what we bringin, no gimmicks
Verse Two: Lord Finesse
My decision is precision, I’m ill in ways you can’t vision
I got niggaz worshippin Lord Finesse like religion
You can’t fuck around, you’re kiddin
You don’t want no collision, you better fly South like a pigeon
Good riddance, I flip flows you can’t imagine
I break down your Flintstone style, into fragments
So pay attention to the man rappin
Don’t think that it can’t, I’m livin proof, it can happen
I reign supreme logical, verbally, I drop it in ways
that you never dreamed possible
So lyrically, I personally figure
That my Harvard style, is too deep for you nursery niggaz
When I clutch the mic, I’m comin rough and right
I build more than them workers on construction sights
I’m skilled at it, I’m Illmatic
So yes answers your question if you ask me do I still have it
I’m the realest, the illest
Comin out the woodwork, like them homos in the Village
But seriously, I’m got the remedy
If I’s at the bottom of the toilet
you niggaz still couldn’t shit on me
Originally, it’s the same the vet
I’m on that get rich list, but they didn’t call my name yet
I make it special like a prom night I bomb mics
while other brothers are old news like Walter Kronkite
It’s critical, you got these Xerox individuals
But word life, it ain’t nothin like the original
I wreck kids, that’s my theory and perspective
When it comes to hip-hop, I’m on the case like detectives
You better step to the next man
Cause the greatest soccer player couldn’t kick it like Finesse can
Verse Three: KRS-One
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